


This Reincarnation Malarkey

by sarkywoman



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-26
Updated: 2010-11-26
Packaged: 2019-03-25 04:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13826151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkywoman/pseuds/sarkywoman
Summary: Four lifetimes Blaise and Draco almost got to be together, and one where they did.





	This Reincarnation Malarkey

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010 for an LJ fest and I'm in the process of cross-posting old work. (Though I think actually this might be my only completed HP fic...)

Blaise Zabini was still grumbling long after they had left Divination. “I just don't see how 'understanding our past',” he mimicked their teacher's dreamy, simpering voice, “'can help understand our future'. What a load of old crap. Do you believe in this reincarnation malarkey?” he asked Draco Malfoy, who was walking silently beside him. The blond had been silent a lot lately.

Malfoy shrugged apathetically. “It's not really something I've thought about at any great length,” he said. “I have enough problems in this life without finding others.”

Blaise winced a little at that. It was easy to forget the danger lurking on Draco's horizon while they walked the safe halls of Hogwarts. But the term was nearing its close and a fate worse than death was waiting in Malfoy Manor. Waiting for Draco. “You're keeping your grades up though,” he said, trying to find something to cheer his friend up. “That's pretty impressive, given the circumstances.”

“Impressive as still breathing,” Malfoy drawled as they reached the Slytherin dormitory portrait. “My grades stay high regardless of what I do. Father is most likely paying people.”

“You know that'd never get past Dumbledore,” Blaise replied, not believing Draco's excuse for a minute. “Face it, you're just brilliant.”

That drew a surprised chuckle from Draco's lips. Such a simple sound, but it made Blaise feel ten times lighter. But it was followed by a sigh. “For all the good it does me,” Draco said in a quiet voice filled with helpless despair. 

As they walked into the Slytherin common room, Blaise began to say, “You should...”

“Don't.” Malfoy cut him off smoothly. “There's nothing to be done. I don't need Divination to tell me what's waiting in my future.”

Blaise couldn't think of an argument for that, so Malfoy ascended the stairs to his bedroom and left the other boy stood in the common room alone.

*

_He first saw her in the forest. He thought she was a nymph or a spirit. But when she looked up and her pale blue eyes widened in fear, he realised that she was nothing so threatening. He ridiculed himself for even imagining a darkness within a creature so delicate. Long blonde hair and skin pale as the moon, she stared up at him in silence from where she knelt tracing patterns into the ground._

_Somehow he made himself known as a friend. She had only recently arrived in Salem, her parents seeking their wealth. She knew not a soul in the village. She did not seem eager to meet them. She preferred to sit in the forest and trace her symbols into the dirt. She knew the names of the stars and the trees and the animals but claimed to have never cooked a meal in her life. She was mysterious and strange and utterly captivating and he liked to think that he provoked in her a fifth of the curiosity that she provoked in him._

_He sought her out more and more, the beautiful girl who stayed dry as she stood in the rain, whose dress remained pristine though she knelt in the mud. The girl who spoke in riddles but thought him stupid for not comprehending her meaning. The girl who kissed him with pretty pink lips and asked if he understood that._

_They met in the forest every evening, long after respectable girls should have been outside without a chaperone. Long after the whispers of witchcraft began in the village. His mother began to express concerns about 'the little pixie' he was spending his evenings with. People began to stare. Locals he had known his whole life began to avoid his gaze. One day he heard the dreaded word whispered as he passed._

_“Bewitched.”_

_That night he warned her and begged her to flee. She had tossed her blonde hair back in the moonlight and said, “Now you sound like my mother and father. I thought you better than that.”_

_“What do you mean? They have left you? But how will you manage?”_

_The look she threw him was full of ridicule. “I have managed these three weeks.”_

_Again he was confused. She always confused him. “But why would your parents leave you?”_

_“Because I would not go.”_

_“And why would you not go?”_

_“Because you would not go.” This she said with the same calm manner that fortified all her words. In an identical tone she continued, “I do love you. I thought that was clear.”_

_He must have gaped at her for whole minutes as comprehension slowly dawned. “I...I love you too,” he managed to articulate._

_“Oh, I know that,” she replied with a smile._

_The moment was shattered by his mother's voice calling from somewhere in the forest. He sighed deeply. “I must go see what she wishes, but I will return.”_

_Her smile thinned as if she were saddened. “You will not. But I understand.”_

_It was the last conversation they would ever have. He was set upon by those he had trusted, bound tightly to prevent his interference in the 'trial' to come. His beautiful forest nymph walked to her attackers with a serenity born of knowing superiority. She knew that they feared her. They made him watch as they dipped her under the water in a cage. It did not surprise him when they pulled her out still-breathing and bone-dry. She had never hidden her brilliance; modesty was not in her nature._

_So they burned her._

*

Blaise sat bolt upright in his bed, breathing hard. He blinked rapidly, trying to brush away the image of the beautiful girl burning as the villagers looked on and called it justice. Eventually he was forced to recollect the happier aspects of the dream, to banish the traumatic ending with the sweet beginning. 

He swung his legs over the side of his bed and thought on the dream some more. Though he was still tired there was no way he would be able to get back to sleep any time soon. His bedroom door creaked open and Draco stood in the doorway, looking in curiously.

“Blaise, are you alright? I heard...” Draco trailed off awkwardly. He looked so unsure of himself expressing concern. Blaise was flattered that the blond boy had considered him worth the walk from the room next door.

“Just a nightmare,” Blaise said. His hands were still shaking. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“You didn't,” Draco said, stepping into the bedroom and closing the door quietly behind him. And now that Blaise took a second look, he realised Draco was in his robes, not his pyjamas. No wonder the other boy had seemed so tired lately. “What was it about?”

Blaise winced at the thought of the girl in the flames. “You don't have to do this. I know it's not...” he struggled to explain himself. “It's not really your thing to comfort people.”

“I'm not an emotional retard,” Draco replied, raising his eyebrow to show that he was slightly offended. “Besides, misery loves company.” He walked over to the bed and sat down beside Blaise. “Tell me about your dream.”

When had Blaise ever been able to refuse Draco something? “I think it was like, Salem, or somewhere like that,” Blaise began. “I was... I don't know, some mud-blood peasant...” Draco snorted at that. “I met a witch in the woods who was _beautiful_. She was fantastic. One of the old-school nature worshippers. But the villagers found out what she was and... well, the witch trials happened.”

Draco wrinkled his nose, finding fault with the story instantly. “She can't have been that fantastic or she wouldn't have been caught up in that fiasco. Everyone knew when a witch hunt was brewing, why didn't she flee the village? And why did she tell you what she was if you were a mud-blood? That's just foolish.”

“She loved me,” Blaise explained. “She wanted me to know everything about her, so she showed me and she stayed with me. Even as it killed her.”

Silver-blue eyes were fixed on him intently. “Well I suppose she learned her lesson then, didn't she?” Draco said coldly as he rose from the bed to leave the room.

“And what bloody lesson was that?” Blaise snapped. He didn't often lose his temper with Draco, but with the dream so vivid in his mind it hurt to hear the tragedy belittled. 

Halfway through the door, Draco paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Showing your hand, being that open with people, it leads nowhere good. They could hurt you, or just be too weak to help you.” Blaise flinched at that, remembering his inability to rescue the nameless witch. But Draco wasn't done. “If people care enough, and they're strong enough, they'll understand you without being told anything.”

“Are you saying she shouldn't have shared her world with me?”

Draco laughed disbelievingly. “It was just a dream, Blaise.” He sobered. “But don't you think she would have been thinking the same when she watched you from the fire?”

*

Divination was their last lesson of the day on Monday and Tuesday, so the sense of deja vu as Blaise and Draco walked back to the Slytherin dormitory was to be expected.

“I don't understand though,” Blaise said, still agitated from what their professor had said in class. “I didn't _do_ any homework! How can I have surpassed everyone else's efforts?!”

Draco shrugged. “Maybe she's finally lost all contact with reality. When she starts praising Weasley, you'll know I'm right.”

An angry voice piped up behind them. “I'm actually doing bloody well in Divination, Malfoy.”

The Slytherin pair turned to see Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter, matching glares on their faces. Draco just smirked. “Hear that, Blaise? Told you I was right.”

“What are you playing about at, Zabini?” Potter growled. The Boy Who Lived To Piss Off Slytherin was growling a lot these days. Draco blamed testosterone imbalances and social expectations, which was all well and good except he had a tendency to say it to Potter's face.

“I'm not playing around at anything,” Blaise said calmly, though he did wonder what Potter was getting at.

“You just said it yourself,” Harry explained. “We heard you. You didn't do your homework. Yet somehow you have Professor Trelawney throwing house points at Slytherin.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It's not our fault she's been mystically communicating with the liquor again. In fact, it's probably visions of _your_ tragic future that's driving her potty, Potter.” He finished off his snarky comment in a sing-song voice before throwing a hand dramatically to his forehead in a fake swoon. “Oh, the darkness, the tragedy, killed by Voldemort before he even reached puberty!” Draco shrugged then. “Of course, that doesn't necessarily limit him to any time soon.”

Blaise sniggered as Potter and Weasley looked murderous. It was so good to have Draco bitching instead of moping. He joined in. “I dare say Potter could live to a ripe old virginal age,” he grinned.

Ron Weasley took this opportunity to lash out against the cause of his best mate's outrage. “If the alternative's getting rogered by You-Know-Who, I'd rather die a virgin! Not all of us have the Dark Mark burned onto our arses, Malfoy.”

Draco's jaw clenched, as did Blaise's stomach. The two Gryffindorks had no idea how low a blow that was. But the blond boy just raised an eyebrow coolly. “I bet you would _love_ to check and see if that's true, wouldn't you? I've told you Weasley, no matter how much you provoke me, you will never be permitted to see any part of me below the belt. It would be like dropping my wand in termites.” He turned his back on the two and began to walk away. “If you want to be teacher's pets perhaps you should let Granger handle your homework,” Draco called back to them.

“Oh fuck off Malfoy,” Ron yelled eloquently.

Blaise was so busy mentally ridiculing Team Potter for their lack of wit that it wasn't until he and Draco were at the portrait that he realised the pale boy was trembling. “Hey, are you alright?”

Predictably, Draco nodded. The guy would scream bloody murder for a paper-cut but the threat of Voldemort in his family home was politely denied a reaction. The Malfoys were weird like that. “Yes. Fine. I'm going to my room.”

“Do you...” 

Draco paused in his retreat, eyeing Blaise curiously, waiting for the end of the question.

Blaise hadn't planned that far, expecting to be ignored. “Um, do you want company?”

Draco frowned slightly, tilted his head to the side in a perfect quizzical expression. “What good would that do?”

Blaise shrugged helplessly. “Well...sometimes it helps to have someone who...cares.”

The strangest thing happened. Draco's frown actually softened, the lines on his brow smoothing as he sighed. He didn't smile though, so the effect was a transition from confusion to sadness.

“I don't think caring is enough, Blaise. Good night.”

And once again Zabini was left watching his friend descend the staircase alone.

*

_It was weak, but then Miles always made him feel that way. Weakened resolve, weak at the knees, just thoughts of him were distracting. Lane had managed one single week away from his love before his vow to himself was broken. He could stay away no longer._

_Perhaps there was some way to compensate Miles' family for the unhappy match their heir had found in him. Perhaps if Lane convinced his parents to part with enough money, Miles' family would accept the idea of Miles reproducing outside of marriage with a woman of their choosing. The thought of it drove Lane slightly mad with jealousy, but what was the alternative? He would rather lose Miles for one night than for life._

_He rode his favourite stallion to Miles' family home. For the whole journey his mind was occupied with the things he had said to push Miles away. It had seemed worth it at the time. Lane had thought himself capable of tearing his own heart out for the sake of Miles having a happy future. A contented family, a good wife, children..._

_He had been wrong. And that was precisely what he intended to say to Miles and Miles' family. They would have to accommodate him. He would not give Miles up. And of course Miles would need a gracious and loving apology to mend the damage Lane had undoubtedly caused with his rejection._

_Miles' father, a cruel and imposing man, greeted him at the door after the butler had fetched him.._

_“I want to see him,” Lane said firmly._

_“I thought you might,” replied the senior gentleman, surprisingly. “He is in his bedroom.”_

_Lane was shocked at being admitted into the lavish home. Last time Miles Senior had chased him from the building. Still, there was no time to waste questioning it. Lane ran up the staircase and down the halls to the bedchamber of his beloved. He knocked on the door and it was opened by a pale, tearful maid who smiled weakly upon seeing him._

_“Oh, Master Lane. Oh, bless you, I'm so sorry...”_

_He looked past her to the beautiful figure of Miles laying still upon his bed. Far, far too still. Lane's blood turned to ice._

_“What happened?” he managed to whisper._

_“You weren't told?” the maid asked sympathetically. “They found him in the pond, the poor lamb... They say he couldn't handle the grief-” She slapped a hand over her own mouth and mumbled, “Forgive me, I meant nothing by it.”_

_The pond had been their meeting place._

_“May I have a moment alone with him?” he requested of the maid, who acquiesced immediately._

_Lane moved towards the writing table and took the silver letter opener with him to the bed. He dragged it over his wrists and fell asleep beside his beloved one more time._

*

It was impossible to go back to sleep after a dream so harrowing. Blaise rose from bed and went down to the Slytherin common room in his pyjamas, barely surprised at all to see Draco Malfoy lounging on the sofa by a flickering fire, reading a book. 

The boy's eyes didn't shift from his book as he asked, “Another bad dream, Blaise?”

“Yeah,” the tired boy sighed. “Budge up.” He tapped Draco's legs.

Draco raised an eyebrow at the demand, but drew his legs back anyway, only to throw them back over Blaise's lap once the boy had sat down. Blaise was still too sleepy to care, absently running his hand up and down Draco's shin in a way that he would normally expect to be punched for. But it seemed Draco was less defensive in these hours as well, since he continued reading his book without comment.

“Salem again?” he asked after a while.

Blaise was confused at first. “What? Oh, no. No magic at all this time, actually. I was a muggle in love with a muggle.”

“Mudbloods can't love,” Draco snapped, “They have no souls.”

Both boys started to laugh immediately. Yeah, so it could have been offensive to any muggle-born pupils, but there weren't any nearby and Draco only said it to purposely offend. He didn't actually mean it and anyone with half a brain would realise that. “But, yeah. His family hated the relationship because of that whole muggle taboo about boys fancying other boys.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Weird.”

“Yeah. So it was this big deal and I broke up with him because I thought he'd be happier without me. But he, uh, killed himself.”

“Oops,” Draco said, still reading his book. Blaise snatched the text from his hands and threw it across the room. “Oi!”

“You'll get it back when you try a little sensitivity!” Blaise said firmly. “I just had a very disturbing dream!”

Draco put a hand to his heart. “Awww, poor li'l Blaisey-waisey! Did those bed bugs bite? You sad, tragic little baby. I would hug you if I wasn't completely incapacitated by the shock and horror of your trying ordeal.”

“Alright, alright...” Blaise grumbled. Draco's sarcasm was less fun when it was aimed at him.

“No it's not alright, you brave little soldier,” Malfoy continued to coo. “You've just had a bad dream! Bad dreams are the worst thing that can happen to anyone! I'm so glad you disturbed me during my quiet time so that I can bestow my endless depths of sympathy on you because god knows _I'm not feeling sorry enough for myself_!”

Blaise had to look away from the fury in those blue eyes. “If you want to talk about it, I'm here,” he said awkwardly.

“I have absolutely no desire to dump my problems on anyone else,” Draco said primly. “I'll handle it all myself.”

An image of the pale maid from the dream rose in Blaise's mind. _They say he couldn't handle the grief..._ “What if it becomes too much for you?”

“It won't,” Draco replied sharply. “Now shush and let me finish my book.” The blond wizard waved his hand and brought the book back across the room.

Blaise did as he was told, going over and over the dream again in his mind.

*

“Oh Mr Zabini!” Professor Trelawney exclaimed at the start of their next Divination lesson. “More homework? You do spoil me. Twenty house points to Slytherin!”

A small cheer rose up from the Slytherin students in the classroom, including Malfoy, whose lips curled up into a smug smile when he looked over at the disgruntled Gryffindors. Blaise wanted to argue that he had no clue what she was talking about, he hadn't _done_ any homework, but that was too honest for a Slytherin student to contemplate. There were house points at stake, after all. It was on his mind all lesson though, all through the tedious lectures on reincarnation.

At the end of the lesson, while they were still packing away their things, Potter and Weasley went to the front of the room and asked Professor Trelawney exactly what homework Blaise had finished in order to get ahead. Blaise listened in subtly to the conversation.

The simpering middle-aged woman smiled madly at the two Gryffindor boys. “Why, he is doing what I asked of you all at the beginning of this topic. He is studying his past in order to understand his future.”

“And how exactly is he doing that?” Potter asked, with a sidelong glare at Blaise, who smiled sweetly in response.

“Dreams of past lives,” the Professor explained. “Blaise has managed two before any of you have managed one. Of course, that could just be because his dreams have a more pertinent and immediate message, but it is impressive nonetheless!”

Blaise noticed Draco leaving the classroom and hurried after him. “Did you hear that?” he asked as he left the room. “My dreams aren't dreams! They're past lives!”

Draco raised a cynical eyebrow. “Why is that a good thing? Your dreams have been bollocks.”

“Um...” Blaise was somewhat lost at that comment. “Guess so.”

“Still, at least understanding your past helps you understand your future, or whatever it is she was going on about. So don't tell your mother if you fall for a wood nymph and if you find a highly-strung Muggle aristocrat, elope and avoid ponds.”

Blaise laughed, more out of shock than anything. “You really can be an utter bastard, you know that?” To be honest, in the daylight hours the dreams felt further from his mind and he did not feel nearly as sensitive about them. 

“You say it as though you're surprised,” Draco drawled. “Now I'm going to the library. Not all of us can do our homework while sleeping.”

The boys went their separate ways and it was only once he was back in the solitude of his bedchamber that Blaise wondered what Professor Trelawney had meant about his dreams having a 'pertinent and immediate message'.

*

_They were so very young, all of them. The old men had died, or hidden themselves away behind desks and authority. Maps were laid out on big expensive tables and toy armies were marched across... the old men playing with their toys while the young men died._

_Zachariah Blackstaff was not supposed to be here. He had joined the War in the early days as Zack Blake, with his forged Muggle documents, in order to keep an eye on the increasing hostilities. Certain Muggle events – such as war – had the power to resonate within the Wizarding world. The whole 'escalating weapons' thing was causing some concern._

_Still, it was all sorted now. The Muggle world could blow itself to hell and thanks to the intel of Zachariah and other daring wizards like him, the Wizards would be able to sweep up what was left and continue on regardless. His mission was done and he had been called back to the Aurors. Apparently omens of a magical war were becoming too frequent to be ignored. Time to leave the Muggles to play, the boss had said._

_It didn't look like a fun game, though. The new devices that the Muggles had constructed to destroy one another might have been non-threatening to the distant bureaucrats in the Wizarding world, but Zachariah had seen their power. He had seen good men slaughtered. Tomorrow his boys (they weren't old enough to be called men) would march. And they would die._

_Zachariah was not a soft or kind man, but the thought of their blood on the battlefield made his stomach churn and his eyes sting._

_“Sir?”_

_Martin Dawes. A respectable young lad, son of a dead hero. Quiet, well-educated, handsome in a way Zachariah was forbidden by Muggle taboos to appreciate. The damn flower of the battlefield and tomorrow his blood would be scattered like wind-blown petals._

_Bloody war-time Muggle poetry was turning his brain._

_“Yes, Dawes?”_

_“I suspect sir,” Martin spoke in that certain voice he had, as though every word was meticulously planned, “That this may be my last night on God's green Earth.”_

_Zachariah looked around himself at the muddy trench and thought of the battle outside, where they could hear the shells falling. “Doesn't look too green to me, Dawes.”_

_“Indeed, sir. I suppose not.” The well-spoken tone had earned the boy derision in the early days, before the string of luck combined with heroism that had made Zachariah wonder whether the lad was a Wizard. He wasn't. More's the pity. “Regardless, I doubt I will live through tomorrow.”_

_The shelling seemed to grow louder around them and Zachariah twitched, wondering how close it was going to get. That was the worst part of it all, the bloody helplessness. Waiting to get blown up. He had warded their previous camps, but had run out of spell components for anything remotely useful by this point._

_“Can't think like that, Dawes. You have to look on the bright side.”_

_The blond lad took a deep breath, an alien look of uncertainty on him momentarily. “With all due respect sir, that is exactly what I am doing. Tomorrow, none of the little things will matter any more. All those...stupid little problems that shouldn't matter? They won't. Not after tomorrow. There is no chance we will survive. We are too few. I'm sure England will win the war, but tomorrow will have nothing to do with it.”_

_Zachariah's chest was tight with emotion. He could not recall a time in his life when he had felt as much as he did here, with these brave Muggle men. A few years before and he called them Mudbloods. It made him angry with himself, to think of how ignorant he was. “Why are you telling me all of this?”_

_“I...I read your letter, sir. I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have. You are being recalled by the Special Department sir, aren't you?”_

_As part of his cover, Zachariah had always allowed his boys to think he was from a Special Department of War. It provided an excuse for his communication with the Aurors. “Yes,” he answered sadly._

_Dawes swallowed, obviously trying to keep his composure. “You won't die with us tomorrow.”_

_Zachariah's jaw clenched as he tried to decide. Ignoring the message from his superiors would only have him summoned at the worst possible time. Given the danger of his location, they'd probably summon him if he were five minutes late. “No, I won't.” He sounded far more disappointed than he would have credited himself with being. “I'm sorry.”_

_Dawes smiled. That hardly ever happened, which was just as well because it made Zachariah weak at the knees. “I'm not.”_

_“Eager to be rid of me?” Zachariah teased._

_“No, quite the opposite,” Dawes said quietly. “I will miss you terribly.” Another deep breath. “When I spoke of problems that would cease to matter tomorrow, I had one in particular on my mind. My feelings for you, sir.”_

_Zachariah was somewhat thrown by that one. Of course he had noticed the boy's stares but Dawes was the quiet type, always observing people. He'd thought nothing of it. The fact that the lad didn't have a sweetheart back home was slightly suspect perhaps..._

_Dawes stepped forward. “Would you let me kiss you, sir?”_

_Zachariah didn't. He got there first, showing the boy how it was done. And he knew he was the first to taste those soft, delicate lips. It seemed madness that such a sweetness would be saved for him, a wizard of blood and death magic who drove away anything that tried to bring light into his life._

_He wanted to take Dawes away with him. He wanted to show him Magic. But it was impossible for a Muggle to comprehend the Wizarding world. Dawes would have to stay in the war-torn Muggle world._

_They shared the night, hidden away in a secluded corner of the trench as the shells rained down around them. Made love in the midst of war. Zachariah decided to stay._

_But of course, it had never been his choice. As the morning approached, he was brought to the Ministry building through magical means. It had been deemed prudent to just summon them all with one spell rather than let each Wizard make their own way back. Thoughtful of them._

_After a series of reputation-shattering arguments with important figures, Zachariah set off on his return to Martin. A string of Apparations led him to the battlefield. Or rather, the slaughterhouse. He couldn't see or hear Martin in the chaos._

_An explosive rolled to his feet. He reached for his wand, knowing there was no time for a spell._

_A flash of blond and Zachariah was shoved aside, falling down into a ditch as an explosion sounded above him. Debris and dust rained down on his body, cutting his face and making him cough._

_The damage would have been so much worse (and oh, infinitely better...) if Martin Dawes had not thrown himself in the way of the blast._

_Zachariah drew his wand. He had found more to fight for in this world than the Wizarding one. His blood wouldn't scatter like wind-blown petals, but with any luck it would spill beside his dead Muggle sweetheart._

*

There were tears streaming down Blaise's face when he woke. He wiped them away, though it was a futile endeavour until he stopped sobbing. These dreams were driving him insane. How many past lives could he have led?

The Slytherin boy took a deep breath to collect himself and wrapped his body more thoroughly in the warm blankets. He had to think clearly about this. Obviously there were elements of the dream that were important or he wouldn't be having them. So... well, they were moving in a chronological order so far, closer to the present each time. In every dream he had lost a love.

And the other thing, something this dream had led him to notice in the others...

Blaise climbed from the warmth of his bed and used his wand to light the way down the cold hallway to Draco's chamber. Quiet as the dead, he pushed open the door.

The Malfoy heir was actually sleeping. A bloody miracle. Blaise watched him at peace and thought on the dreams. Martin Dawes had been undeniably Malfoy, in everything from his looks to his accent and facial expressions. Realising that made him think of poor Miles who, in his final sleep, looked exactly like the scene in front of Blaise now, ignoring the change in clothing. Even the pretty witch of Salem had been Draco with a chromosome switch. Longer hair, slightly softer features, a gentler voice, but her eyes were Draco's.

Had it been Draco in all of his dreams? Or was his mind confusing the now with the then? It could be a rationalisation, seeing those he had loved as possessing the same face as the one he now... well. Yes. That was a thought for another time, perhaps.

Draco stirred in his sleep and muttered something about someone being stupid.

Blaise turned and left. It was doing him no good to mope over Draco. It never did.

*

In his free lesson that day, Blaise went to visit Professor Trelawney. She was examining tarot decks in her classroom and frowning, but she brightened considerably when she saw Blaise.

“Mr Zabini! I can't keep dishing out house points like this, but what choice do I have when you're working so very hard!”

Blaise sighed. “Professor, I'm not working hard. I'm not doing anything. These dreams? They're coming to me for a reason. I think I need help figuring them out.”

“Hmm,” the Professor seemed pensive. “Take a seat. I think you had better tell me all about them. Tea?”

“Um...no thank you.”

She seemed disappointed, but shrugged and poured some for herself from a tea tray that appeared out of nowhere. “Very well. Start from the top.”

So he did. It was a little awkward to tell her of his love for the figures in his dreams, but the Professor didn't bat an eyelid and by the time Blaise was round to narrating his latest dream he felt comfortable enough to mention the trench-tryst between himself and the Muggle, Martin Dawes.

“Ah,” she sighed, “star-crossed lovers, torn apart by fate.” She used a handkerchief to dab at her teary eyes. 

“But...is it possible that they could have been Draco's past lives?” Blaise asked incredulously. “How could that be?”

The professor sighed. “You haven't been paying attention in class, have you Mr Zabini? I have already explained the purpose of reincarnation and the study of past lives. It is to _learn from your mistakes_. Obviously you've been making a mistake where Draco is concerned. Your fates are clearly intertwined. The dreams are trying to stop you from making the same mistake in this life.”

“But what mistake?” 

Professor Trelawney sighed again, sadly. “Blaise, I can't help you with that. They are your dreams, your lives, and you are the only one likely to realise their message.”

Blaise thanked her, despite knowing very little more than he had prior to their meeting apart from the fact that it was certainly Draco in his dreams.

The certainty terrified him more than anything, because so far Draco had died in every one.

*

_The crowd were entranced, down in their pit of smoke and strobe lighting. Blade couldn't blame them. He felt like one of them, barely able to strum the guitar for awe as Dragon practically pole-danced with the microphone. When he sang it was like he was pouring pure emotion into the microphone, amplifying it out over the crowd so they could all feel his fear, pain and loneliness. Then the soul-scorching melody turned into brain-blowing volume and Dragon screamed his fury and bitterness out at the world. The crowd screamed along. Hate was something they could all handle these days. It was pretty much all there was left in this soulless age._

_With a final howl about the value of vicious violence, Dragon blew smoke out at the mike and stomped off-stage. Another gig well played. Blade threw his fingers up at the fans then followed Precious and Gargoyle out back._

_“He's getting worse,” Precious said with her nose wrinkled in derision as she picked at the black and pink paint on her fingernails. “He doesn't even look at people any more.”_

_“He's tired,” Blade argued. “Just like the rest of us.”_

_“Thought that's what the sleeping pills were for,” Gargoyle muttered._

_Precious sighed. “Sleeping pills, pep pills, downers and uppers, powders and pills and needles... He's gonna die.”_

_“He is_ not _going to die!” Blade shouted. “He'd tell me if it was that bad.”_

_Gargoyle laughed. “Yeah right. Just 'cause you two write sad poetry all night and share drugs? That doesn't count for shit, Blade.”_

_“He's right,” Precious said, lighting up a joint. “Still, if you keep the crap you write we could probably sell it when he kicks the bucket.”_

_“I will fucking slap you if you say that again,” Blade growled._

_“What, because it'll be so much more useful under your pillow being cried on?” she sneered. “Face it, we'd better start looking for a new frontman. We've seen 'em all go this way. It's the pressure, no-one can take it.”_

_“Dragon's different,” Blade snapped, before turning on his heel and striding off towards the younger man's dressing room._

_He knocked first, then entered without waiting for a response. There was no shame between them, because neither boy had any. They'd fucked groupies together. No threesomes though, much to Blade's disappointment. None of the fans would know Dragon like he did. They weren't the ones who got him through the night, who talked him down or up depending on whether he was high or low. Nobody else knew that the fierce and bitter anarchist Dragon was an angry rich kid from a posh neighbourhood in London. Nobody had to know, because it didn't matter._

_Dragon was sat with his back to the wall and a glazed look in his eyes. In the minutes since getting off the stage, he had already gotten high._

_“Why'd you do this to yourself again?” Blade asked as he sat down beside the only other real person to populate his world of painted faces and fake names. “We could have had a nice sober night in. It's the end of the tour now.”_

_“Yeah,” Dragon agreed quietly, blond hair falling forward over pale blue eyes that stared into a void Blade couldn't see. “It's the end of the world now.”_

_“Don't be stupid,” Blade said. “The world's our oyster. You've got the world in the palm of your hand.”_

_Dragon turned his right hand over, examining it in the dim light provided by the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. “I don't know what to do with it. It's stupid really,” he chuckled, a sound he only made when high, “because I'm the one who asked for it in the first place. I set the ball rolling and now it's too fast for me to keep up.”_

_Blade took a deep breath. “I want you to come off the drugs. I'm starting to forget who you are and I think you are too.”_

_Dragon turned his head slowly to look at him. He stared for a long time, and Blade fought the urge to ask exactly what he was seeing. Eventually, pink lips parted and asked, “May I start tomorrow? Tonight is a bit of a lost cause.”_

_It was so much more than Blade had dared to hope for. His heart almost burst with hope and relief and all those other emotions their songs never touched. “Yeah, yeah, tomorrow's fantastic.”_

_“We should celebrate tonight then, before sobriety drives us sane.”_

_Blade laughed. Yeah, he could manage one more night of excess._

_It was a binge like no other. It was further than they had ever gone while it was just the two of them. They shot up, wrote new songs, took some pills, made out on the dirty floor for a wonderfully long time, shot up again, danced to a song Dragon had in his head..._

_Blade blacked out at some unknown point, for an unknown amount of time. When he came round on the sofa, Dragon was sat on the floor beside him, so that their heads were level. Dragon was staring into the void again._

_“I've been dreaming again,” the blond boy whispered. Blade wondered how Dragon knew he was awake without looking._

_“What of?” Blade asked, equally hushed. The moment was fragile. Like a tear-drop._

_“I dreamt I was a witch,” Dragon whispered. “And you watched me burn. I dreamt I was an aristocrat. You broke my heart and I drowned myself. I dreamt I was a soldier and I gave my life for you. And now I'm dreaming again.”_

_“What are you this time?” Blade asked, a chill down his spine._

_“Pained,” Dragon murmured. “Unloved.”_

_“You aren't unloved,” Blade said shakily, trying to sound firm. “I adore you.”_

_Dragon sighed deeply. “You should tell me that, the next time we dream. It might help.”_

_“Doesn't it help this time?” Blade asked, confused._

_Dragon turned to him then, a single tear sliding down a pale cheek as he shook his head. “No. I'm always too quick to throw myself away.” He rested his head on the sofa by Blade's shoulder._

_That was when Blade noticed the smell of blood. He pushed himself up, knowing what he would see even before his gaze fell on the slit wrists of his muse. Blood pooled around the sofa, soaked deep into the worn denim of Dragon's jeans for Precious to sell as gory memorabilia._

_“Don't leave me,” Blade begged, knowing it was already too late. Dragon was cold to the touch, pulse weak and breathing unsteady. He knelt in the blood and said it again. “Don't leave me.”_

_Dragon smiled weakly, lips deathly pale against the threadbare sofa. “I always do,” he whispered breathlessly. “You have to give me a reason... to stay...”_

_And then he was gone, a thin, hollow body in Blade's arms, covered in blood. Blade sobbed his heart out, wiping a hand over his eyes to stop the tears and smudging blood over the tear tracks instead. “You're not going without me,” he snapped at Dragon, who looked somehow serene in the macabre scene. Blade snatched up one of the unused needles and filled it up more than even Dragon had ever dared. Then he lay on the sofa where he could look at Dragon's sleeping smile, and plunged the syringe into his arm._

*

Blaise clambered out of bed so fast that he was still tangled in blankets as he reached the door and he almost tripped and broke his neck. Frustrated he bundled up the blankets and threw them back at the bed before racing to Draco's dorm room and bursting in.

Draco jumped, then glared. “Blaise, what the hell?! I could have been naked!”

“But you're not,” Blaise said, breathlessly, vision swimming for getting out of bed so quickly. Then he frowned. “You're packing.”

Draco eyed the house elf folding his clothes. “Well observed.”

“Where are you going?”

The blond wizard looked away. “Father sent me a letter. I am returning home somewhat earlier than anticipated.” His voice was strained and now that Blaise knew the problem, he could see the tell-tale signs of stress. The slight paling, the few hairs out of place...

“You can't.”

Draco looked at him as though he was mad. “Why not?”

“Because I won't let you.”

He knew now. He knew the message. Draco would never ask for help, but that didn't mean he didn't want it. If Blaise let him go to Voldemort, he would lose him. He had to save Draco, because Draco would never save himself. He saw no reason to.

“It really isn't your choice, Blaise,” Draco said, though he seemed perplexed by the sudden determination and forwardness from his friend.

“Well I can't trust you to make it,” Blaise argued. “Don't go anywhere!” He turned and ran from the room, ignoring Draco's calls for him to come back. He ran up the stairs, out of the Slytherin common room, down the corridors and round the staircases until he reached Dumbledore's office, out of breath. 

“What are you doing, Zabini?” Potter's irritating voice asked.

“I...need...” Blaise panted helplessly, “to see...Dumbledore.”

“Whatever for?” asked Hermione Granger, who stood with the boy-who-lived. “Is it an emergency?”

They were Gryffindors, sworn enemies, and annoying as hell. But only the truth would get him anywhere and Draco's life was worth paying some dignity. “Lucius Malfoy's gonna drag Draco off to get the Dark Mark from Voldemort against his will,” he said, finally getting some oxygen back into his lungs. “He's got to be stopped.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Oh, knock it off. Malfoy's gagging for the Dark Mark. I don't know what you're trying to pull...”

“Stop it, Harry,” snapped Granger in her best schoolteacher tone. Then to Blaise, she said, “The password at the moment is lollipops.”

The wall opened to reveal the winding staircase and while Blaise's legs ached just _looking_ at it, he ran up there anyway.

Dumbledore did not seem surprised to see him, but upon hearing of the reason for Blaise's visit he became rather grave. It was mere minutes before they were both hurrying down the staircase, Dumbledore telling Blaise to return to Malfoy, and telling the curious Granger and Potter to send Professor Snape to Malfoy's dorm immediately.

As Blaise ran into the dormitory, Draco was pulling his luggage out of his bedroom. He wasted no time – he snatched the handle away from the startled boy and dragged the luggage back into his room.

“Blaise!” Draco cried. “What the bloody hell has gotten into you?”

“My dreams!” Blaise explained, dropping the luggage near the bed. “I've figured them out!”

Draco folded his arms across his chest and huffed. “Well that's fantastic Blaise, but this _really_ isn't the time for us to chat about it.”

“There wouldn't be another time though, would there?” Blaise challenged. “Because I'm not likely to see you again once you've gone home. Voldemort would kill you, or made some Death Eaters do it. Or you'd kill yourself rather than let them hurt you.”

Draco couldn't meet his eyes any longer, which just confirmed Blaise's suspicions. “I have to go Blaise, my father will be here soon.”

“Dumbledore's meeting him at the gate. The old bugger may be addled, but he's powerful and he won't let you be taken against your will.”

The blue eyes of his friend widened almost comically. “What? Blaise, what have you done? Why have you gotten involved?”

“Because I love you,” Blaise said, finding the words surprisingly easy in the face of potential tragedy. “My dreams, they were all about you. The girl in Salem, Miles, the soldier and the singer...”

“You never told me about those ones.”

“They were all you,” Blaise continued. “In all my past lives I've lost you because I was too scared to step forward and let you know that I love you. And I was too stupid to see that you need saving, whether you admit it or not. Let me save you this time. Please, don't leave me. Just stay here with me. I can do it this time, I can protect you. We have people who can help. Just...please, I can't lose you again.”

Professor Snape stepped into the room. “Your father is waiting in Dumbledore's office. We can ban him from school grounds, or you can go with him. It is entirely up to you, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco sighed, arms still folded. “Well...I wouldn't want all of Blaise's hard work to go to waste. And the alternative was killing myself this evening, so...” he was cut off mid-sentence when Blaise pulled him into a strong hug.

“Tell me that's a joke made in poor taste,” the taller boy pleaded.

Draco pulled back far enough to speak, with a serious expression on his face. “I never wanted to become a Death Eater, Blaise. You know that. But there was no real reason to live a life running from it.” He smiled slightly. “Now there is. At least, I think there is.”

“There is,” Blaise nodded. “Promise.”

Snape wrinkled his nose. “I'll inform Dumbledore of your decision, shall I?” he asked rhetorically before striding out of the room with his black cape billowing out behind him. 

“He's happy for us really,” Draco said with a grin. “Now, what was this about a soldier and a singer?”

*

That night, with Draco relaxed and sleeping beside him, Blaise dreamt again. He dreamt of the lives he had almost lived.

_Her laughter had the delicate sound of raindrops hitting a lake as she pulled him up into the back of the wooden carriage. The driver wouldn't hear them over the sound of the horses and by the time he knew the young couple were there, they would be far from the fires of Salem._

_Lane opened the door to see Miles, soaked to the skin from the rain. The boy had never been more dishevelled...or more beautiful. “I disowned them,” Miles said breathlessly. “I disowned them and ran here. You are all I need, Lane.” Lane pulled him inside and divested him of his wet clothes._

_Zachariah was so weary of it all. Why hadn't the medics just left him on the bloody grass? He was lifted on a stretcher into the camp and placed on a stinking makeshift mattress. He was tempted to just die there. Just give up and die. At least, until a hand grabbed his and he turned his head to see Martin Dawes, bandaged and wounded but alive and so happy to see him. They would both live, and Zachariah swore to drag him far away from muggle and wizard wars._

_Dragon wandered into the living room of the expensive London flat and sat himself down on Blade's lap. That evening they would be going on a talk show and revealing their love to the nation along with Blade's new musical project and Dragon's new clothing line. But the evening was hours away. There was dinner to be cooked, speeches to rehearse and love to be made._

Blaise woke up with a faint sense of longing for those lives, but the feeling disappeared into nothing when Draco moved in closer beside him. He'd finally got it right, and his reward would be the future he could see stretching out before him.


End file.
